


Love-40, Match Point

by zxc_keito



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, F/M, US Open, Wimbledon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4526610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxc_keito/pseuds/zxc_keito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She gave him an ultimatum: time. He rises to the challenge – but sometimes your best is not enough and Levi learns it the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love-40, Match Point

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quite some time ago during my Wimbledon-craze. I wanted to practice writing in that ever-popular present-tense and this is the result...still not sure what to think of it. Levi's personality is so hard to put down in words TT_TT

He is down two points from winning the match. They both have equal sets, and an equal number of games on this fifth, and final set. It’s his turn to switch that around.

He bounces the ball just in front of the baseline. One. Two. Holding it to his racket, he curves forwards, then leans back in a graceful s-curve, throwing the ball into the air and then smashing it to the other side, where his opponent waited, prepared.

With bated breath, the crowd watches as the ball is rallied, eyes darting to whoever had control. The atmosphere is suffocating. Humid tension fills his nostrils; it is squeezing his lungs until he can’t find reason to breathe, because _this_ is the ultimatum _she’s_ given him. This is the final act of the dance they’ve been playing since their first encounter.

The ball is played.

*****

There is no one quite like her.

Alluring amber eyes like syrup dripping from the barks of trees in autumn, with a glisten like fresh dewdrops on honey-coated leaves after a brief light drizzle. Her hair is silken caramel, glowing brightly under the light. He remembers the smoothness of her skin. Unblemished. Unscarred. Unique. She is the candle, he is the moth; he is driven to her light, but he knows his wings will catch fire if he gets too close.

He is blinded. Because sometimes she is just too much.

*****

He has won. The deafening roars of the crowd numbs his ears as they resonated throughout the court. His opponent grins at him, high-fives, and then collects his things, anticipating for next year.

He runs around the rectangular court, affirmatively nodding towards his applauding coach and waving a shy hand at his cheering friends. The tension lifts. Relief is breathed in.

He closes his eyes softly, stock still amongst the ordered chaos of the crowd. He is reminded of sunlight and fallen leaves. The ultimatum.

She doesn’t know yet, he realizes. She’s probably on the airplane home. To Russia. Back home to Bossard, the man who could give her what he could not.

He hangs his head in despair and shame. He has not won. The real prize is unattainable. For that war, he has lost. Love is a much harder game to play.

As the blood rushes to his head, he thinks of love, and wonders if he has played it wrong all this time. A flash. Someone has caught the single tear falling down his cheek. They will think it is of joy. Of triumph. When really, it is a drop of frustration and regret that he has not tried harder, or did his best.

He pumps his fist into the air above him, holds it steady for a few heartbeats. The crowd jumps.

At least he has given her some poetic justice.

*****

It has been three months since his success. She hasn’t contacted him since.

He imagines her merriment in their home in Russia. Perhaps she is with child already, and is too embarrassed to tell him about it. Perhaps they are getting married, and are too afraid of inviting him.

He growls lowly, holding his head in his hands.

So much for an ultimatum.

*****

After five months, she finally works up the courage to pick up the phone.

She talks slower, he notices. Much more articulate and sharp. The chirp has been lost. There is no trace of laughter in her voice. He wonders what has been done to her. Or what she has done to herself. He curses inwardly. Maybe it is his fault.

Their conversation is short and concise. He asks the questions, she gives the answers. She asks none, he presses for more. He wants to know how she’s been doing. How _they’ve_ been doing. When he might see her again.

But she’s ended the call before she could give him the one answer he’s needed all this time.

A scream tears through the silence of his home. The U.S. Open is in a few weeks. He has to start training. Become better. Stronger.

Because maybe he’ll see her there. And he can’t lose her this time around. Whatever it takes, he will bring back the spark she has lost.

*****

She is there on the practice courts, returning the ball with determination and focus. He knows that look so well. She is set to win.

But then his eye catches on _her_. Her hair is duller, flatter, and deader. Her amber eyes are now vacuous and half-lidded, as if her soul had been sucked out of her. He dares to think how she will react to him.

He swallows his pain, shrugs his bag closer to him, and walks on.

He doesn’t see her lingering gaze on his departing form.

He doesn’t see her curling into a tight ball and burying her head into her arms as her shoulders shuddered with her sobs.

*****

The next time he sees her, it is at the awards ceremony. A bit of her fire has rekindled after her triumph, and he is so happy, his heart leaps with joy at the sight of her smiling face. She is so beautiful yet so unreachable. A star amongst the dark, night sky.

He stands next to her, electricity flowing between them, inching his hand closer to hers. He takes up his trophy. She takes up hers. They share a fleeting glance, and he sees what could have been.

Her stare is still on him. He feels it as the back of his neck tickles with the sensation of someone watching his every move. Familiar eyes. Golden like illuminated autumn. Bright flashes surround the both of them.

He remembers the times they’ve spent laughing together.

Fuck it, he tells himself. I’ll give it one last shot.

*****

He confronts her at the party and takes her to a private corner, isolated from the world.

Surprisingly, her boyfriend is missing from the scene. But he stopped reading magazines and articles a while ago. At some point, he had to stop caring. He had to move on. But when she answered the phone, his hopes had been steadily increasing.

“Petra,” he says timidly. It’s been too long. He doesn’t know how to behave. Or act. She’s looking at him, though. She is not repulsed or intimidated. He relaxes slightly.

“Captain,” she flashes him a smile. His wings have been singed a bit. Mustn’t fly too close. “Listen…I’m—"

He can’t contain himself.

He crashes his lips onto hers, burying his fingers into her short, silky hair. She is holding on to his head, running her hands over his neck. She is returning his urgency. She’s been craving for his touch all this time and she can’t stop not now not ever she doesn’t want to let him go for the _world_.

They are still kissing when the champagne is drawn out and everyone is calling out their names. His heart is pumping furiously. He could feel hers too, pounding loudly and excitedly as she places hot, staccato kisses all over his face.

He is passionate for her. He burns. He pines. Someday he’s going to be blown out.

*****

When he wakes up, he hears her screaming. He is cold. The ground is hard beneath him.

His vision is blurred. He can’t see. He thinks he’s finally blinded. Well and truly.

He can’t think.

He can only hear how much he’s hurting her.

When the sirens are close, he feels numb. She is still screaming. Her sun-kissed face is red and sore with tears. She stays where she is as they drag him away, curling back into a ball.

He holds out his arm towards her, and through his clouded eyes, he could see red.

Stark red, oozing down his fingertips. The warmth of his head.

He thinks she is repulsed by him. But as her form and her cries come closer, he realizes that she is desperate for him. Her hands grip onto his calloused fingers. They become blood-stained.

He doesn’t want her to let go. And she doesn’t.

She is the one person he would’ve liked to spend his last moments with.

She whispers Do you love me as his heart slows to a stop.

He wished that he had given her the one answer she needed all this time.

But he is indolent.

He knows that love is the hardest game he has ever played, and the greatest victory he has ever won.


End file.
